


Padded Room

by Sampika (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Gen, Mind Palace, One Shot, Padded Room, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Teen!lock AU, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Sampika
Summary: A teenage Sherlock finds himself trapped in a padded room after a nearly fatal drug overdose.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a Tumblr post stating that the rooms in Sherlock's mind palace have to be someplace he has been before, so since he keeps Moriarty in a padded room in his mind, he must have been in a padded room at some point in his life. 
> 
> The story is also on my Wattpad account.

How had he ended up here? What had he done? What had he done to be condemned to this hellish prison, where boredom and doctor-prescribed medications ate away at his brain? Where he had nothing to keep from tearing himself apart on the inside? But no. He knew why he was here, it was all his own fault.

He knew his limits for drug use, knew them very well. But he ignored the boundaries he had set up for himself, and he knew he shouldn't have, but he couldn't help it. Emotions; the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. They had been the ones to cloud his judgement and let Logic slip away.

And he let them.

Because he didn't want to grapple with keeping his Emotions in check anymore. He was tired of it, tired of the facade his brother insist he shape himself into. This constant battle for control between him and Emotions, he didn't want to win that battle like his brother had. But perhaps that was just the stress talking.

He resorted to drugs to dull the stress and fatigue and emotions. But his normal dosage just wasn't enough, so he took more. He kept sticking the needles into his arm, relishing the feeling of the fluids flowing into his veins from the intrusion. He knew his brother would see all the track marks when he went home, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

For once in his life, he let Emotions and Logic slip through his normally firm grasp. They scattered and ran free in his mind palace, like mice escaping their cages, until they were way past the ability to be picked back up and restrained. So what if he overdosed? Logic was too far gone to answer that question.

Emotion and Logic and Drugs, the perfect team. The trio worked together to gradually destroy his mind palace, with him still inside and unable to reach the door.

They ran rampant through the halls, tearing at the floor and crashing gaping holes in the walls. Logic took up a bat and shattered windows, Drugs tossed acid on the previously indestructible foundations, laughing as they dissolved and left the surrounding area crumbling without its support, while Emotion tore up shelves and scattered paper and burned furniture.

He'd been there too long, much too long under the circumstances. He became unaware of what was real and what was a lucid fever dream, lost himself in the confines of his once great mind palace. It all crumbled at the foundations and collapsed on his conscience, trapping him in a safe haven turned hell.

His body; his physical body, lashed out. He didn't have control, he didn't know what he was doing.

He didn't know that he nearly strangled his brother when he found him. He didn't know his mother and father were nearly knocked unconscious when he hurled a book at their heads. He didn't know he was screeching the entire time.

He was slightly more aware when he got to the hospital, but was no more in control than before.

He knew that he managed to somehow get his hands on a plastic cafeteria knife and nearly stabbed several doctors. He heard them inform his father that they couldn't put a sedative in him, because any more drugs could kill him. He felt several security guards restrain him, he felt himself being dragged away. He felt himself eventually being wrapped up in a straight jacket.

All of it was hazy and out of order and less than half of the moments had any sort of conscious thought on his part, but he remembered. It was humiliating.

He had finally lost consciousness not long after passing through a doorway labeled in bold red letters reading, "Psychiatric Ward." If he had woken up at any time between then and finding himself in this physical prison, he had no memory of it.

Now, all he had to stare at were the pale off-white padded walls and floor of his cell. He spent the first day and a half in the straight jacket and chained to the wall, put there for his own safety as he thrashed around and tugged in vain at the bonds. The withdrawal of the majority of the Drugs from his body was a long and painful experience, and he was only half aware during the entire process.

After Drugs had left the fractured, mutilated, demolished ruins of his Mind Palace, Logic and Emotions calmed down. They still refused to be restrained, but they were no longer in control.

He went still, not moving physically or mentally. He just stood still, crouched in his real and imaginary prisons, staring at his hopeless situation. The only thought running through his head: _Why bother trying to pick up the pieces? It was hopeless._

He stayed like that for two days.

He occasionally saw the face of the doctors peering in to check on his condition through the port hole in the door, but it hardly mattered. They were nothing but the wardens, keeping him locked in here. They couldn't help him if they tried, and he frankly did not want their help.

He didn't acknowledge the doctors when they unhooked the chain from the wall and removed the straight jacket. He still wouldn't move, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, only dared to drink once.

When they tried to force feed him, Emotions got angry. Logic took a step back and let Emotions do it's thing, leading to him lashing out at the doctors until they left. That was the first and last time they tried to force feed him.

His brother visited later that day. He crouched down in front of him and spoke in a soft, slow voice. Told him to eat, told him to try to get better. Pleaded with him to try, try to fix himself so that he could go home.

He didn't say a word in response to his brother, and didn't consider his pleas until after he left.

If he could go home... He could see Mummy again. And father. That made Emotions happy, and Logic decided it would be a good idea. Logic decided that it and Emotions' actions were made in haste, that they had been hypnotized into doing what they did by Drugs and it's brainwashing ideas. Logic said that it and Emotions would cooperate now.

But, how does he start? His mind palace is in ruins, he can't find anything among the rubble. He can't even find his own name...

Tears sting his eyes and threaten to spill over. How can he loose his own name? His sense of identity? Emotions start taking hold once more, but this time Logic grabbed a hold of it. _Pull yourself together! This can be done, it will just take awhile! Find a place to start, and pick. Up. The. Pieces._

What is his name? What is it, what is it, what is it? What is his brother's name? His father and mother's names?

That would be the place to start, names. At least his own name, him first and everything else comes after.

His name. His name...

Sherlock. William..? Sherlock... Scott Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He repeats it over and over in his head, repeats it until he is certain it's true. _My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock._

That is the first stone, the block to build up his mind palace once again. On to the next.

How old is he? Sherlock mulled this over for a bit, rummaging around the debris leftover in his head. Nineteen, he is nineteen years old.

His best friend was a dog named Redbeard. He died when Sherlock was eight. His brother's name is Mycroft, he is seven years older than Sherlock.

With each little fact being recollected, he built up the walls of his mind palace, brick by brick. With each new block set in place, he is finding himself.

By the time the doctors bring him his evening meal, he has found most of his childhood. There are still missing links, pieces that will probably never be found, but that's okay.

He hadn't realized just how hungry he is until the food is handed over to him. Sherlock devours everything on the plate, swallowing most of it without chewing nearly enough. The doctors are surprised but pleased, excitedly writing down his progress on papers attached to worn out clipboards.

Sherlock slept peacefully that night, happy with his progress in restoring his mind. He had Logic and Emotions under control again, Drugs is gone. Things started looking up, like he could eventually restore himself and go home.

Each morning when he woke, the first thought to cross his mind would be this:

_Time to pick up more pieces, time to right my wrongs and fix myself._

He allows these thoughts to motivate him for weeks, long after he is removed from the padded cell and placed in a normal room, albeit still in the psychiatric ward.

He works well with his therapist and psychiatrist and drug counselor, actually listening and taking their advice into account. Making shelves in a brand new room of his recovering mind palace and storing the information away.

And finally, finally, he wakes up and gets to hear those words he so desperately worked towards, rebuilt himself just to hear.

"Sherlock Holmes, it's time for you to go home."


End file.
